


What the World Is Waiting For

by Aduantas



Category: The Smiths
Genre: Gen, I haven't even listened to the smiths in weeks, radio station AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-31 01:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aduantas/pseuds/Aduantas
Summary: Manchester, 1982, a Smiths-less universe. A chance meeting between fictionalised versions of real people.Johnny, sue me if it'll get you in the same room as miseryguts long enough to slap him.ETA: as of 7/10/17, this fic has been edited for formatting and typographical errors, and some additions have been made to the text. sadly, I've had to abandon my 1,968 word count, but these things happen.





	What the World Is Waiting For

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Stone Roses (I think). 
> 
> Sometimes an idea percolates in your head and eventually you stay up past midnight writing it out. Or: I listened to too many old episodes of Mark and Lard on youtube and came up with this. Unbetaed and mal-formatted.

"Flyers? Flyers, anyone?”

  
The plaintive cry of one Steven Patrick Morrissey echoed across the Salford University quad. The architecture was bleak, the passers-by scarce, and the air chill.

  
“Support your local independent radio station…”  
Bereft at the lack of any response, he climbed back behind his stall dejected, and sank into a creaking, dripping camp chair that sagged underneath his bulk.  
One of the flyers fluttered away from the pile and landed in a puddle. He didn’t bother attempting to retrieve it, putting his head in his hands.

 

“You dropped your flyer.” He glanced up. A voice coming forth from the mist, a dark figure skulking a few yards away from him...

“Leave it. Not worth picking it up.”

  
“Too late now, I already have. Here you go. Are you alright? Your voice sounds funny.”

  
“Oh, it’s just the tuberculosis–no, that’s just what I sound like. Or maybe I have a cold.”

  
“Y’aren’t doing yourself many favours, sitting outside in the rain. What’s so important?”

  
“It’s nothing of any consequence in the slightest--however, my employer has decided I shall flyer, so flyer I must. Can’t take a break, either, because he knows a few students here—hello, Brian!” he bawled across the quad to a man in a long camel-hair coat lurking near the Chemistry building, “I do hope you’re having a nice time out here! So of course he’s sent a few to spy.”

  
“Jesus.”

  
“I doubt it— not that we couldn’t do with some righteous judgement around here.”

  
“Should I take a few flyers, appease your boss? Where d’you work?”

  
“Oh, it’s very—it’s Trade Radio. Just look at the banner.”

  
He leant back as far as his flimsy chair would let him and pointed at the sign above his head, which did indeed read “Trade Radio—Manchester’s Best Independent Radio Station!”

  
“It’s quite amusing, really,” muttered Morrissey, inspecting his fingernails and looking entirely unamused, “We’re the only independent radio station in Manchester, so it’s almost dishonest advertising. Very grubby, commercialist, against the spirit of the whole enterprise one would think, but with the listening figures as they are I suppose you must be forgiving.”

  
“Who else is doing the forgiving, eh? What with the Lord off appearing in toast instead of hanging ‘round here.”

  
A slight smile passed over Morrissey’s face . “Have we met before?”  
“Maybe, maybe. I got to gigs a lot?”

  
Morrissey peered closely at him–him?–, whoever it was, partly to create an impression of wariness and partly because he’d left his contacts at home by mistake. Favourite groups?”  
“Er, I like The Stooges. T.Rex were good. Wire. Velvet Underground, Blondie, some disco’s alright…”  
Morrissey squinted and tilted his head; he could just about see the boy slump, as with the air of a grave confession he admitted “I’ve mostly been listening to the Shangri-La’s, recently. The Cookies and the Ronettes and Dusty Springfield.”

  
“What music do you play?”  
A glint of teeth as the boy laughs softly, putting his hands in his pockets. “Good guess. I’m a guitarist and I used to be in a band-- well, I still am, on and off. My friend Andy plays the bass, but we’ve been looking for a singer for a while.”  
“Well.” Morrissey leans back again, considering his options. “Come with me.”

  
“What?”

  
“I’m booking you as a guest musician for my programme tonight, live session. You might only get a pint for your troubles, but I’ll have them promote it during the afternoon alternative charts, mystery musician, get everyone to think Howard Devoto or someone’ll be on.”

  
“I’ve got plans tonight! And there’s no way Andy’ll do it, he’s always knackered after he comes back from the lumber yard.”

  
“Lumber? I didn’t know there were that many trees in Manchester.”

  
“There aren’t, they have to ship them in. I don’t know if I can do it, I don’t even have anything prepared…”

  
“Play some covers, then. Come on, you’ll get to use real recording equipment and they give you a tape of it afterwards.”

  
“Well, alright, but I need to get my gear together, ‘phone a few people, change into some decent clothes…”

  
“It’s radio.”

  
“Then be sure to mention the quality of my jacket. It’s about creating the right mindset, I can’t perform well if I'm not looking well. Anyway, we’ll have to meet up again, where?”

  
“I’ll give you my address, I can’t finish here for another hour and I need to get some of my records for tonight. It’s King’s Road, Stretford. Meet me there at four and we can head to the station, you can record some inserts. Bring Andy if you really want.”

"Brilliant! Here, there's my phone number. Ask for Johnny, I'm staying with a mate. See you soon."  

 

In a small, shared flat above a clothes shop:

“Andy, pal—sorry, did I wake you? Nah, nah, no worries, get this, I’ve gotten us a gig! Eh, payment? Well, I dunno, I’m talking to the producer in an hour—it’s for radio, _radio_ , yeah, are you falling asleep again? Late-night indie radio. They want us in the studio live, but we can record some stuff beforehand, too. What? I mean, I know Freak Party didn’t really go anywhere, but this’d be a new thing, new name maybe. I’ve wrote some songs the last couple of weeks, they’d do well enough—I know you had some ideas, too, don’t lie."

"Ah come here, you can’t be that tired! You were going to go out with us to the Haç as well, and if you can manage that—no, I told you, you said yeah, don’t you remember?" 

  
"You will? Thanks a million! I owe you one! I’ll meet you at the station at six—the radio station, not Piccadilly. It’s Trade Radio. T-R-A—you do know it, you won that “Meet Debbie Harry” contest there a few years ago—well how was I supposed to know it was Deborah Harrison the hairdresser from Altrincham, not Debbie the singer from Blondie? Blame them for deceptive practices—yeah, she really is, yeah, I know you cried, yeah, yeah, down near where the Electric Palace used to be. Cheers, Andy, goodbye.”

Johnny stretched, yawned, checked his watch; he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and began dialling. 

“Hello?”

  
“I’m looking for a Morrissey?”

  
“You’re speaking to one, I’m Jackie. What d’you want?”

  
“No, I mean—”

  
“Just a minute. STEVEN!”  
There was the fuzzy sound of heavy, passive-aggressive footsteps, and a faint “It’s for you.” The sound of the phone changing hands.  
“Steve, eh?”

  
“Not a bloody word out of you, are you doing the programme or not?”

  
“I am, I am, just wanted to tell you Andy’s in.”

  
“Well, thanks.”

 

“Should I meet you at the station instead of your house?”

  
“If you don’t mind.”  
“For your sake. See you there in half an hour.”

A light flicked on above a door, in a squat, ugly building on a damp, cloudy night.  
“Welcome to the Graveyard Shift on FM 113.7, Trade Radio, the number one temporary distraction for the overworked, the overemotional and the overmedicated. I’m Diana Dors and with me tonight are Dirk Bogarde and Cary Grant, in what will hopefully become a regular capacity. Say hello, boys, and be sure to tell us why you’re here tonight.”

  
Andy got out of his chair, picked up his bass and left, as the engineer frantically waved her hands for him to stay seated. The door swung shut slowly behind him as he proceeded out of the room.  
“—And that was the sound of Mr. Grant bidding us farewell. A great loss, I’m sure—no, sit down, Dirk, don’t leave or Hanna will lose the plot for good. We’re going to be playing some records here tonight, as well as taking a few phone-ins, but we’ll also have some live songs from our mystery musicians, now musician—yes, our two guests are multitalented indeed. Some of the tracks were recorded earlier in a secure facility, but we are also going to broadcast some live music, right from the studio. Do you have anything you want to say about that, Mr. Bogarde?”

  
“I’ll do my best.”

  
“Oh, the excitement that awaits—but before any of that, to ease you into a long, long, night, here’s Twinkle.”  
Morrissey let a 7-inch begin to spin and slapped the “Off Air” button, removing his headphones. He rolled back on his wheelie chair and gave Johnny a considering look.  
“D’you think your friend is still around?”

  
“Andy might be, yeah,” said Johnny, stressing his name.

  
“Ought you retrieve him, or can you manage?”

  
“I’d rather not do without him. ‘Scuse me.”  
Johnny bolted from his chair, leaving it spinning. He yanked open the heavy doors of the booth and ran down the hall as fast as his short legs and smoking habit would allow.

  
“Andy? Andy!”  
He was stood outside the entrance to the building with his bass case leant up against the wall, smoking a fag. He looked up as Johnny skidded into view and shook his head.  
Johnny caught his breath, panting. It took a few minutes.  
“C’mon, mate, you said you’d do it.”  
Andy shook his head again, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette and exhaling sharply.  
“I’m not having that. No breakfast, double shift at the yard, two hours in the studio for you and then some fella with funny eyebrows asking me stupid questions. There comes a time when a man has to stand up for himself.”

  
“Ah, Andy, I need you to play for the second instrumental, it wouldn’t sound anywhere as good without you on it, and you’ll get to be on radio. And I can ask your man to amp it down…”

  
“Can you? When’d you meet him, anyway?”

  
“Today. What? Look, if you’re tired you can sleep during the records, I’ll wake you up for the live bits. There’s an all-night chippy down the road, the engineer said, we can get you your tea. Please, Andy, your bus won’t come for another hour anyway, and it’s ages across town. Won’t you come back in?”

  
Andy pondered this with the countenance of a monk, meditating on the role of the divine in all things. 

“I’ll want spicy chips and a cheese and onion pie with them,” he said eventually. “And you’ll be paying for it, not that poor woman. But I’ll come back in.”

“Brilliant, brilliant. Hey, Andy?”  
“Yeah?”  
“Can I have the end off that fag?”

  
Andy shot him an affectionate look and flicked what was left of his cigarette into the gutter.  
“Nice try. Let’s go back in, I left my jacket inside and it’s bloody freezing out here.”  
“Alright.”  
Andy stamped out the last light from the cigarette and they sloped back in through the fire exit, down the corridor, up the stairs.  
“Hey, Andy?”

  
“What now?”

  
“D’you think this could be the start of something? I mean, it’s not international chart domination but a regular slot could be good, right?”

  
“You’re the one who was so keen on international chart domination,” Andy commented, wheezing slightly as they reached the second floor, “I would have just been happy to play somewhere other than the parish hall. But you just could be right.”

They levelled out on the first floor, Andy stopping to scrabble at the straps of his guitar case and catch his breath. The hallway was dim compared to the high-watt lights of the broadcasting booth, and Johnny stopped for a moment to consider the figure inside it through the plexi-glass windows, slumped forward in his chair while he spoke into a microphone.

  
Three years on the job, every night ‘till four, Monday to Friday...it wasn’t like playing on stage, but it must still take courage. To sit up there every night and speak, to trust your own judgment and play music you believed in...could he do that? Could he match that, compare up to that?

The “Off Air” sign blinked on above the door, and they stepped in.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: although the reference to the sale of cheese-and-onion pies in Manchester chippers is firmly grounded in fact, as far as I am aware the only chipper that sells spiced up chips is my local chipper, the Dragon Boat, which is nowhere within the vicinity of the Greater Manchester Area. Please forgive this glaring anachronism, and the discredit it does to the vibrance of Manchester's street food. 
> 
> Did I express something resembling a realistic version of these fictionalised real people? Did I screw up any details of 80s radio broadcasting equipment and technique? Please let me know.


End file.
